


Vinny starts a lot!

by youcouldmakealife



Series: Vinny gets a life [7]
Category: Original Work
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-30
Updated: 2015-05-30
Packaged: 2018-04-02 01:48:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,565
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4041016
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/youcouldmakealife/pseuds/youcouldmakealife
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>So Fourns will leave, or Fourns will stay and Thomas will leave, and either way it’s going to suck. Thomas has always known it was coming. It’s not something Anton has to worry about, locked in for the next six years with a no move clause. Anton would have to okay any trade before it happened, and nobody’s shipping him to Hamilton. He’s got as secure a contract as you can get, and he’s earned it, he’s incredible. Thomas isn’t. He knows he isn’t. He works hard, and he does his best. He’s good enough, usually.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Vinny starts a lot!

At first, Thomas thinks Fourns is injured. In a 5-1 loss, three of the goals are gloveside, which is usually Fournier’s strength. They weren’t good goals. Thomas thinks it might be his shoulder, maybe elbow. 

He checks in with Fournier after, hand on his elbow, blocker side, just in case. “You hurt?” Thomas asks.

“Stop hovering, Bambi, I’m fine,” Fournier says. Unsurprisingly, Bambi stuck. Thomas hates Anton and Michel both. “Just had a shit game. Happens.”

It happens again. Another time after that. A shit game could have just turned into a shit road trip, those happen, or a shit homestand, those happen too, but in two and a half weeks Thomas plays their only two wins. 

He isn’t really surprised when Gagnon takes him aside, tells him he’ll be starting the next game, even though he played their last. Fourns doesn’t look surprised either, just resigned, when he puts on the ballcap for that game, and then the next. Thomas wins them both, one by the skin of his teeth and one with a healthy lead thanks to their second line, so they keep putting him in.

Fournier’s starting to look a lot less resigned and a lot more resigned, all at once. Thomas doesn’t know how to explain it. It feels like he’s around less, even when he’s there, and sitting beside him on the bus, the plane, feels like sitting alone. He hates it. He knows that every time Fourns is in it means Thomas isn’t, and vice versa, but they’re a team, and right now it doesn’t feel like it.

Thomas loses his fourth game, but not badly, and they put him in for a fifth. Maybe if they had back to backs it’d be different, but they don’t, so it isn’t. Fournier barely looks at him before the game. After Thomas wins it in a shootout, he isn’t looking at him at all. 

“We’re okay, right Mich?” Thomas asks when he Fournier taps his helmet, at the end of the line streaming out to meet him.

“We’re fine,” Fournier says, and he looks tired. Thomas really wants to believe him, but he doesn’t say much after that, and even though they sit practically shoulder to shoulder in the too cramped visitors’ room, Fourns doesn’t touch him once. Thomas hadn’t realised how much Fournier touched him until he stopped, no elbow nudges or shoulders brushing, nothing at all. 

He _hates_ it. A lot of the team decides to go out for dinner, drinks, but Thomas pleads off, gets himself room service instead, flipping between the Food Network and the news, trying not to think.

This is the thing: Fourns has one more year left on his contract, and he’s in his mid-thirties. If they renew him, it’ll be for less, and it’ll be for backup, and Thomas will go down or go somewhere else. He gets how the business works, and it’s never personal. He’s never going to be Montreal’s starter, and he knows that. 

So Fourns will leave, or Fourns will stay and Thomas will leave, and either way it’s going to suck. Thomas has always known it was coming. It’s not something Anton has to worry about, locked in for the next six years with a no move clause. Anton would have to okay any trade before it happened, and nobody’s shipping him to Hamilton. He’s got as secure a contract as you can get, and he’s earned it, he’s incredible. Thomas isn’t. He knows he isn’t. He works hard, and he does his best. He’s good enough, usually. 

He’s not the only one, everyone on the roster save for Anton and Lapointe is expendable, and they know it, and it’s nothing personal. Any day any one of them could be shipped out without notice, and he hates it every time, and it never gets easy, but it gets easier. He doesn’t know how to deal with something like this, though, someone who’s still on the roster drifting away from him. He’s had weird relationships with his starter or his back-up before, especially when the roles changed, but when Thomas came to Montreal, Fourns took him in, kind, and now he isn’t looking Thomas in the eye. 

Thomas had kind of wished Anton hadn’t gone out, but when Anton comes busting in an hour after Thomas, he takes it back.

“Carmen says you yelled at him,” Anton says.

“I didn’t yell at Carmen,” Thomas says. People yell at Carmen every day. Thomas never does. Carmen was just insistent on dragging Thomas along, and Thomas was equally insistent on not wanting to go.

“He’s like, crying in Bovard’s arms,” Anton says, mouth twitching.

“I didn’t yell at Carmen,” Thomas repeats, but he’s probably going to apologise to Carmen tomorrow morning anyway.

“What’s up?”Anton says. “Carmen’s annoying, but you don’t yell at people.”

“I’m fine,” Thomas says. “Want to watch ‘Chopped’?”

“You love victory drinks,” Anton says. “Seriously, Vinny.”

“I’m going to watch ‘Chopped’,” Thomas informs him, and turns the volume up.

Anton takes the remote from his hand and turns off the TV. “Hey,” Thomas says. 

“Okay, I’m not a mindreader,” Anton says, sitting on the bed beside Thomas. “You’re doing awesome right now, there is basically no reason to be upset. What’s up?”

If Anton’s asking, then Thomas suspects he’s been looking upset for longer than just today, because Anton pretty much never pries.

“Mich is barely talking to me,” Thomas mumbles.

“So what?” Anton says. “If he wants to be immature about you doing better than him, whatever.”

“He’s my friend,” Thomas says.

“He’s your competition,” Anton says, rolling his eyes. “I know you like to play at the cute innocent thing, but you’re not actually that naïve.”

“His kids call me Uncle Vinny,” Thomas says.

“And one day they won’t, and they’ll forget they ever did,” Anton says flatly.

Thomas stares at him. “You are such an asshole,” he says, finally. “Thanks for the talk.”

“I’m not trying to be an asshole, just. Vinny,” Anton says, “I did this, okay, and you didn’t. You think my father didn’t have friends on the team? He left Hartford and didn’t hear shit from them. Teammates aren’t friends.”

That hurts.

“So what,” Thomas says, and he doesn’t like the way his voice sounds, so small, “If I go to another team we’re not friends anymore?”

“No,” Anton says, and Thomas flinches. “I mean, _no,_ Vinny, of course we are. Shit.” He reaches out, puts a hand on Thomas’ shoulder, and Thomas doesn’t really want Anton to touch him right now, but he leans into it because he can’t help it. Wherever Anton’s concerned, Thomas takes what he can get. He isn’t proud of it.

“That’s different,” Anton says. “Okay? You’re -- you know you’re my best friend, don’t front.”

“Don’t front,” Thomas repeats.

“We both know I’m stuck with you,” Anton says, and then tugs Thomas in. Thomas goes easy, lets Anton wrap an arm around him. “But Fournier’s pissed, okay? Can you blame him? He’s pissing away his contract sitting on the bench, and every game he doesn’t play is another he can’t get back, and you’ve got a ton of time left.”

Thomas eyes him. 

“Goalie’s kid,” Anton says. “I know shit sometimes. You guys are all nuts.” He curls his hand around the nape of Thomas’ neck, shakes him gently. “He’s not pissed at you.”

“Yes he is,” Thomas says.

“Okay, he is,” Anton says. “But he’ll get over it. The monsters will be throwing tea parties and painting your nails again in no time.”

“They’re not monsters,” Thomas mumbles half-heartedly. “And we play dinosaurs.”

“They are totally monsters,” Anton argues. “And so are you. You sic them on me every time.”

“Because you’re afraid of little girls,” Thomas tells him. 

“I think we just agreed they are monsters,” Anton says, and Thomas did not agree, at least not out loud, but he lets it go, because Anton’s stubborn and is probably not going to admit he’s afraid of little girls. Which he is. That’s why Thomas sends them Anton’s way in the first place. 

“I should apologise to Carms,” Thomas says.

“He has the attention span of a goldfish, he probably already forgot it,” Anton says. He turns the TV back on, nudges it down from the blaring volume Thomas set it to, trying to avoid talking. “‘Chopped’?”

Thomas doesn’t take his head off Anton’s shoulder, just nods against it, and Anton shows no sign of nudging him off, even when the episode’s over. Nobody called moral support, but he guesses it was pretty obvious.

He falls asleep sometime during the next episode, and wakes up, disoriented, to Anton carefully dislodging him, getting him horizontal. He reaches out, blind, catches Anton’s wrist, and can feel Anton freeze under his fingers.

“Go back to sleep,” Anton whispers.

“Stay,” Thomas mumbles, still closer to sleep than waking, and expects Anton to leave. He pulls out of Thomas’ grip, and Thomas hears the clink of a belt, is mostly back under when he feels Anton nudging him again, getting him under the covers and then crawling in with him. He reaches out again, catching Anton’s hand this time, and Anton squeezes.

When Thomas wakes up the next morning, the bed’s empty and the shower’s on, and he’d think he imagined it, but the spot beside him is still warm.


End file.
